


Foundlings

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [7]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Kid Fic, M/M, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29541129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo prompt 7: Expanding the family.The story of Baby Ciri and her accidental dads.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079273
Comments: 13
Kudos: 136
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	Foundlings

"Are you sure this is it?" Jaskier said from beside him. "It looks modest, for an alderman's house."

Geralt hummed and stared up at the building with a frown. It was modest; tall and narrow, like it had been built to squeeze between the houses on either side, each of them almost grand in comparison. Perhaps the alderman was simply a humble public servant, more interested in his work than the trappings that came along with the position. Stranger things had happened, Geralt supposed.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" Geralt said.

"That's your 'I've got a bad feeling' grunt."

"I don't have an 'I've got a bad feeling' grunt." Geralt did have a bad feeling, however. He could feel it at the nape of his neck, the sensation that something wasn't quite right. He just couldn't put his finger on what.

"Yes you do."

Before they could argue the point further, the door clicked and swung open, the room beyond shrouded in shadow. Geralt and Jaskier exchanged a look.

"Wait out here," said Geralt, and he climbed the steps to enter the house. Through the doorway was a steep staircase leading to the upper floor of the building, more steps descending to Geralt's right. He took the few steps down into the main living space. The hearth was cold and empty, and Geralt curled a hand around the hilt of his sword as he moved towards the solitary candle flickering on the table and the man sat by it, his back to Geralt. Geralt didn't manage to take more than two noiseless steps before the curious figure turned to meet his gaze.

"You've not been an easy man to find," said Mouseack. His tone was conversational, but some of its usual warmth was missing. Geralt frowned as he released his sword and took another step closer.

"Mouseack," he started.

" _You're_ the alderman?" an incredulous voice said from behind Geralt.

Geralt cast his eyes to the ceiling and fought back a heavy sigh. "For fuck's sake, Jaskier." One of these days Geralt was going to start tethering Jaskier beside Roach when he took a contract. Maybe he could train her to bite Jaskier if he tried to wander off.

"What? You've been gone for ages. I thought something awful had happened to you."

"Bard," said Mouseack in greeting. There was an amused quirk at his lips, which was something of a relief to see. It didn't do much to ease Geralt's apprehension, though.

"Druid," said Jaskier.

Geralt folded his arms across his chest. The way things had ended back in Cintra, he couldn't imagine Calanthe would send Mouseack to track him down for anything short of utter catastrophe. "I trust you didn't draw me here to relive old times."

Mouseack smiled. Now that Geralt was closer, he could see the flecks of grey in Mouseack's hair, the sleepless bruises beneath his eyes. "Another time, perhaps," he said. "Presently, I'm afraid more pressing matters command me."

He stood, revealing the large basket on the table. Geralt didn't need to peer forward to know what was inside. His stomach dropped.

"What the fuck is this, Mouseack?" he said through clenched teeth.

Geralt's hands were curling into fists at his sides, his insides roiling just as they had done the night he'd made that stupid claim. Beside him, Jaskier was brushing past Geralt to take a look, a soft smile on his face as he gazed down at the child, as if there was no-one in the room but the two of them. Geralt wanted to pull him back, fuelled by a sudden, irrational fear that the longer Jaskier spent near the child the more he would fall in love with it, and would never allow Geralt to run from this. He might have done it, if he wasn't rooted to the spot, frozen by the panic bubbling up inside his chest.

"I suspect you already know," said Mouseack.

"And what does Princess Pavetta think of you tearing her child from her arms to hand off to a witcher?"

"Pavetta's dead."

Jaskier was the first to react, attention snapping to Mouseack, his expression stricken. "What happened?"

"Their ship was hit by a freak storm off the coast of Skellige," said Mouseack. "Princess Cirilla was the only one to survive."

Geralt's frown deepened, but he said nothing. A freak storm. In his experience, those kinds of events were rarely as unpredictable as they appeared.

"How could an infant survive that?" said Jaskier. He was gazing back down at the child with an aching kind of sadness in his eyes. And, Geralt could see with awful clarity, he already wanted to keep her.

"Whatever the reason," said Mouseack, "I think it's clear that destiny has big plans for her."

Fucking destiny.

Geralt wanted to scream. He was caught between conflicting urges: to lash out at Mouseack for dragging him back into this mess, and to turn on his heel and put as much distance between himself and the child as possible. He found himself unable to do either.

_Fuck_.

This was worse than in the wake of the banquet. At least then Geralt had had some hope that he'd be able to avoid this moment. That both of them would.

What life could he offer to the child? The only human who seemed able to tolerate his company was Jaskier, and Geralt still couldn't understand why he'd stayed at Geralt's side for so long. He had no clue how to raise a child, how to even keep one alive. All it would take was one hunt and the girl would be dead, whether killed by the creature Geralt faced or caught in the crossfire, or carried off by some predator while Geralt was distracted. How important could she be if destiny would resign her to that fate?

"Why would Calanthe let you bring the child to me?" he managed. It was some effort to find his voice.

"Calanthe will honour the law of surprise," said Mouseack. The words, 'whether she likes it or not,' were left unsaid. His expression hardened as he stared back at Geralt. "As will you."

" _Mouseack_ ," Geralt snapped.

Before he could say another word, there was a piercing shriek from within the basket. It was an awful wail of a sound that had Geralt wincing, though Jaskier — of course — was unbothered by the din.

"Oh, it's all right, little one," he cooed, reaching to pull the infant into his arms. She had a shock of ice blonde hair, just like her mother's. "Don't let the grumpy old men scare you."

Mouseack turned his attention back to Geralt. "Do you think you can keep running from this?" he said. "Destiny has set its sights on you as much as the girl."

Geralt shook his head. Mouseack stepped closer, a friendly hand on Geralt's forearm, though it brought him no comfort. He offered Geralt a sympathetic smile.

"I don't envy you, old friend," he said. "But if these are the lengths fate would go to in order to unite you with your child of surprise, I fear Cirilla is going to need you, before too long."

"I don't know the first thing about caring for an infant."

"Look to your bard," said Mouseack, and they both gazed over at Jaskier still clutching the whingeing child in his arms, singing softly as he bounced her around the narrow room. "He seems to have some idea."

Geralt watched Jaskier for a long moment, a sour taste growing at the back of his mouth. Mouseack patted his shoulder.

"Keep her safe, Geralt of Rivia," he said, and in a blink he was gone.

"Fuck," said Geralt to himself.

He sank down heavily onto one of the benches at the table and buried his face in his hands. Across the room, Jaskier continued to fuss over the child, and as he rocked her in his arms her cries steadily quieted. Geralt emerged from behind his fingers to peer over at him curiously.

"How do you know how to do that?"

"Oh, we Pankratzes are prolific breeders," said Jaskier. He pulled a face at the bundle in his arms and with a laugh, a tiny, pale hand reached out to grasp at Jaskier's bottom lip. Jaskier blew against it and the delighted giggling grew louder. "I can barely remember a day spent without a litter of young siblings and cousins underfoot."

Hesitantly, Geralt stood and took a step closer, looking down at the girl within Jaskier's arms. His child surprise. And the moment he did so, the girl — Cirilla — went from happily gurgling at Jaskier to peering back up at Geralt, her gaze fixed and intent. It was almost as if she could feel the threads of destiny weaving between them.

Or maybe all of this was bullshit, and the girl was supposed to be with what remained of her family. Raised to be a princess, a ruler, far away from Geralt and his kind. But whether it was destiny or not, Geralt couldn't help but feel _something_ tugging at him when he looked down at the child.

"I think she likes you," said Jaskier.

Geralt swallowed. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do this," he said, the words quiet. Cirilla was still watching him.

Jaskier looked over at him with a tender smile. With his free hand he squeezed Geralt's arm, much like Mouseack had done, but this time Geralt let the touch soothe him, if only a little. "Well," he said, "not on your own, for one thing."

In the months that followed, they managed to settle into something of a routine. While Geralt hunted, Jaskier would remain at camp with the girl, which seemed to satisfy both him and Cirilla — even if it did mean Jaskier missed out on the details of Geralt's hunts. Though these days he spent most of his time composing lullabies and silly songs to make Ciri laugh, rather than his over-the-top glorifications of Geralt's life, so Geralt doubted Jaskier minded it too much. And when contracts were light on the ground or they happened upon a town with a rowdy enough tavern for Jaskier's purposes, he would pull out his lute while Geralt tried his best to keep Ciri alive for another evening.

Geralt was sat at the foot of their bed, in the small room they had been offered in exchange for Jaskier entertaining the patrons downstairs, watching Ciri babble happy nonsense to herself as she thudded the wooden horse Jaskier had bought for her against the floorboards. Through the floor Geralt could hear Jaskier performing.

He wondered if Ciri could hear it as well. She always loved listening to Jaskier sing.

In his lap was his ruined pauldron, sliced through by a griffin's beak two nights earlier. Thankfully Geralt had managed to sever the beast's head before it could reach his skin. He returned his attention to the pauldron, chewing on his bottom lip as he attempted to stitch it well enough to last for at least one more contract. Now that there were three of them travelling the Path — four, including Roach — their coin never quite stretched far enough. Replacing his armour would have to wait.

The pounding of Ciri bashing her toy against the floor came to a merciful end, and Geralt glanced up at her. He watched as she climbed to her feet and tottered across the room.

He had thought this would get easier the older she got. Instead, now that she could get around by herself it was almost impossible to keep her in check. She would grow restless in their arms, wailing to be set down, yet the moment her feet touched the ground she was off, apparently determined to wander away into danger. If Geralt had found Jaskier hard to manage, it was nothing compared to Cirilla.

Geralt just hoped she wouldn't end up talking quite as incessantly as Jaskier did.

"Fuck — Ciri, no," he said, tossing his pauldron aside and launching to his feet to scoop her up before she could start rooting through his potions bag. The moment she was in his arms, she let out an almighty shriek in protest. Jaskier called it her tired cry, though to Geralt, it sounded no different to any of the other screams she decided to bless them with throughout the day. He was still not convinced the child wasn't part banshee.

Geralt carried her back across the room and set her down on the bed, wrestling to pull the bedcovers up over her as she desperately fought to wriggle away, still whingeing as she did so. "Come on," he said, trying his best to mimic the soft tones Jaskier would use when he set her down to sleep, "it's time for bed."

She pushed the covers away and sat up.

"Fuck," said Geralt. And he'd thought Jaskier was stubborn.

With a sigh he laid her down again, this time climbing onto the bed beside her, a gentle hand on her stomach to try and keep her still as he seriously considered the morality of casting Axii on a baby. It didn't take him long to decide, however reluctantly, against it. Jaskier would be furious if he did so.

The sound of Jaskier singing still carried from downstairs, and Geralt hummed along to Ciri as she gradually stopped fidgeting. Before the song had come to an end she was asleep. Geralt blew out the candles and settled back down on the bed.

He didn't bother to leave one lit for Jaskier's benefit. He'd not be returning tonight.

Geralt didn't blame Jaskier for it. Gods, a night away from this, to drink and fuck and do whatever else he pleased, was the least he deserved. Jaskier never complained, but still Geralt could sense the growing tension within him, the loneliness he felt without the usual company he had always craved. Geralt was hardly a fitting replacement for that kind of companionship.

In all this time, Jaskier hadn't spent a single night away from Geralt and Ciri. Considering how often he used to find his way into other people's beds before, Geralt was amazed he hadn't combusted by this point. He heard Jaskier sometimes, sneaking away in the dark of their camp until he believed he was out of earshot, soft moans creeping into the night air as he tried to relieve some of the frustration. And on those nights, Geralt would squeeze his eyes shut tight, as if doing so could block out the sounds he couldn't help but listen to, and he would lie sleepless and tormented until the morning.

Eventually there was the sound of footsteps outside the room, and the door creaked open. Geralt lifted his head. "Jaskier?" he said, as Jaskier shuffled into the room, trying not to stumble in the darkness. With a thought Geralt ignited one of the candles.

"Sorry," said Jaskier. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't."

He was smiling, the triumphant, satisfied way he did after a good performance, his cheeks pink from exertion and a fat purse in his hand. He lifted it for Geralt's benefit. "More than enough to buy you a new set of pauldrons, don't you think?"

Geralt hummed as he watched Jaskier set his lute down and begin pulling off his doublet and boots. The crowd had certainly liked him, then. They'd sounded receptive enough just from what Geralt could hear filtering up through the building. There were bound to be plenty of women downstairs more than willing to invite Jaskier between their thighs.

"I thought you'd be spending the night with one of your new fans," said Geralt.

Stripped down to his shirt and smallclothes, Jaskier climbed onto the bed to face him. "Alas, I fear my heart has already been claimed by another," he said, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of Ciri's head where she lay fast asleep between them. "But you could go out, if you want. There's a highly reputable brothel in the next town. My treat?"

"I don't need to."

"How appallingly mundane of us both," said Jaskier, smiling as he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. "Well goodnight, love."

Geralt watched him, his features soft and breathing gone deep and slow, one arm curled protectively around Ciri, pressed against Geralt's where he did the same. Finally, Geralt extinguished the candle and joined the others in sleep.

Even by Kaer Morhen's standards, it was a harsh winter. Day and night the wind howled against the walls of the keep; each step outside after dark made treacherous by black ice underfoot; nothing but grey visible through the misted windows. Geralt and his brothers quickly gave up on even attempting to use the courtyard for training, the snow too thick for manoeuvrability and soon piling high again each time they tried to clear it.

It probably wasn't the best year to bring Jaskier to the keep for the first time.

He didn't know why he was so concerned by what Jaskier thought of the place. Geralt knew well enough that Kaer Morhen was a shadow of its former self. Yet still, he'd found himself braced for Jaskier's disappointment when the three of them had reached the top of the mountain pass and Jaskier had laid eyes on it.

He needn't have worried. Despite the piercing cold that slipped through cracks in the stone walls, and the snow piled so high against the outer doors you had to throw your shoulder against one just to force it open, Geralt had rarely seen Jaskier without a wide grin on his face in the weeks since they'd arrived, gazing about in wonder or excitedly hoisting Ciri into his arms and pointing things out to her as he led her exploring through the keep. Even the steady worsening of the weather hadn't managed to dampen his spirits.

The blizzard had raged on through the night and for much of the day, leaving them all to take shelter indoors, lounging by the fire in the dining hall or curled beneath piles of thick furs with a book in hand. Not even Vesemir could admonish them for laziness today.

"I pass. Fuck."

Across from Geralt, Lambert threw down his Gwent deck in frustration.

Geralt kicked him in the shin. "Watch your language."

"So she can watch you behead a cockatrice but she can't hear the word 'fuck'?" said Lambert.

"She didn't watch." Luckily Jaskier had had the quick thinking to clutch her against his chest and duck to safety, or else she most certainly would have done. Geralt tried to keep her away from his work as much as possible, but when they were caught off-guard by a sudden attack or Ciri caught a glimpse of the trophies Geralt collected to sell, she wouldn't shrink away in horror. If anything, she was more curious than Geralt would like. It definitely wasn't a good omen.

Eskel was watching them bicker with a smile. He was sat on the floor by the hearth, at first to keep Ciri from straying too close to it, then to simply fuss over her while Geralt and Lambert played a few rounds of Gwent to pass the time. When Geralt looked back at him, Ciri was climbing on Eskel while he chatted happily to her, wearing the same soft expression that came over Jaskier's face when he gazed at Ciri.

Geralt still didn't understand how everyone around him seemed to be so good at this. Even Lambert could make Ciri cackle until she was red-faced and breathless — though he did usually do it by pretending to drop her off the balcony. Geralt was trying his best, but he knew he didn't have the natural instinct that Jaskier and the others possessed. He was made for fighting, not trying to reason with a fussy toddler when she was refusing her food, or comforting her after a nightmare.

But sometimes, when everything was quiet and Ciri would clamber into Geralt's arms, her hand clutching at Geralt's shirt while he stroked her ashen hair until she fell asleep, he could almost convince himself that maybe he was doing something right, after all.

A brightly coloured blur of movement caught his eye through the open doorway, and Geralt climbed to his feet to set off after it. "Jaskier?" he called, already halfway up the staircase by the time Jaskier had reached the top. "What are you doing?"

He glanced over his shoulder to Geralt. "The storm's cleared," he said, fastening his cloak as he stepped out onto the balcony.

Geralt didn't bother to go and fetch his own cloak before following. The air was still bitterly cold, but the skies had cleared, the thick blanket of miserable grey cloud that had descended days earlier finally dissipated. Jaskier gazed out across the mountains with a smile.

"Bored of the keep already?" said Geralt.

"Never," said Jaskier. "I like the view."

Geralt hummed his agreement as he came to stand beside Jaskier at the crumbling parapet. Of all the places he'd been, this was still his favourite spot in the entire Continent. He found himself wondering what Ciri would make of it, one day.

Jaskier pulled his cloak tighter around himself. "You weren't exaggerating about the cold up here, though."

"You know," Geralt began, his brow furrowing, "you didn't have to spend the winter here just for my benefit. You could have gone to Oxenfurt, if that was what you wanted."

Jaskier glanced over at him. "And miss the chance to bear witness to the famous Kaer Morhen?" he said. "Do you know how many books I've read about this place, Geralt?"

"Too many, I'd wager."

In the courtyard below, the doors opened and Geralt watched as Eskel and Lambert brought Ciri out to play in the snow. With a happy squeal she threw herself into a snow drift.

"Was it what you expected?" Geralt said.

He could hear the smile in Jaskier's voice when he spoke.

"And more."

"I thought you'd be desperate to have a break from all of this," said Geralt. "Spend the winter fucking and falling in love and getting yourself into trouble."

"My dear witcher, you know me so well." There was a sudden shout from the courtyard below, and they both peered down in time to see Lambert brushing the snow from his face, while Eskel offered him a shit-eating grin and Ciri cackled in delight. "Besides," added Jaskier, "we both know you can't bear to be without me."

Geralt peered back at him, watching Jaskier as he watched Ciri, playing with the other wolves. "Don't you miss it?"

"Sometimes," Jaskier admitted. "But I'd not be anywhere else." He smiled to himself before he met Geralt's eyes again. "Quite the curious little family, aren't we?"

Geralt hummed, a smile tugging at his own cheeks and a growing warmth in his chest. "I wouldn't change it," he said.

"Nor I."

"Thank you," said Geralt. There was a thick lump in his throat, but he swallowed past it. The words had been caught there for too long, through too many sleepless nights and quiet moments just like this one. It was about time he let them out. "For everything. I wish I had a way to repay you."

And then he did something even he didn't expect, something that just might have been the most foolish, dangerous thing he'd ever done. He closed the narrow distance between them, feeling the warmth radiating from Jaskier even in the harsh cold, and pressed a kiss to Jaskier's cheek.

Jaskier's skin was soft beneath his lips, his scent comforting and familiar. Geralt felt his own cheeks heating as the realisation of what he was doing crept up on him. _Fuck_ , he was an idiot. To offer his gratitude for everything Jaskier had given up for him in one breath and throw it all away in the next.

This was too much to ask of him, one step too far in a friendship Geralt had already pushed well beyond his right. He'd not blame Jaskier for running from this now.

But when Geralt tried to pull away, to turn and barricade himself somewhere within the keep until the mortification subsided and he had come to terms with Jaskier's inevitable departure, Jaskier had a fist curled tight in the front of Geralt's shirt. He kept his face close to Geralt's, his eyes wide and bright when Geralt braved to meet his gaze. He licked his lips.

"I think I know a way you could," he breathed, and brought their mouths together.


End file.
